


rule britannia

by rathxritter



Series: dearbh-aithne chultarail is phearsanta, dualchas, brexit [2]
Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: 2014 Scottish independence referendum, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No SHIELD (Marvel), Angst with a Happy Ending, Brexit, F/M, Scottish Independence Referendum (Franchise) Act 2013, Scottish Independence Referendum Act 2013
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-09-03
Updated: 2019-09-18
Packaged: 2020-10-06 12:27:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 8,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20506991
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rathxritter/pseuds/rathxritter
Summary: The UK government agrees to give temporary powers to the Scottish Parliament to hold a legal referendum, under Section 30 of the 1998 Scotland Act. The Edinburgh Agreement commits both governments to working together constructively in the best interests of the people of Scotland, whatever the outcome of the referendum.Meanwhile, Leopold Fitz and Jemma Simmons realize that the country isn't the only thing that is slowly starting to crack and are therefore forced to reconsider their decisions and their future.





	1. 14 November 2013

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd.

The first course is a savoury Bisque made from lobsters, served on a low two-handled cup on a saucer and accompanied by a Sauvignon Blanc whose earthy tones, mixed with a citrusy spike, perfectly complements the first course. As soon as the white cups in fine china are emptied, they're brought back to the kitchen and the guests are left waiting for the second course: Fresh vegetables and potatoes, warm sourdough bread and slices of extra sharp Cheddar.

"Why do you hate me, Jemma?" whispers Fitz as he leans closer to her ear.

She tries not to laugh and does her best to mask her chuckle with a cough. They look at her and she apologizes, explaining it away by blaming it on a sip of wine gone down the wrong way.

"Oh, come on." She jokes, nudging him with her elbow.

"What did I ever do to you to deserve all of this?"

"It's not that bad, is it?" She pauses, looking herself around. There's plenty of sitting around the table in her parents' living room. Candles and the best and finest wine glasses, the old fine china and the silverware that no doubt her mother has had polished for her in the past week. "Besides, we already had this argument."

Ad nauseam, as some may be tempted to say. It's an argument they had in the past couple of weeks, that morning upon his arrival, that afternoon as they walked through the streets of Sheffield, aimlessly and happy to spend time together, and that evening before coming down for dinner - in bed, naked, between one kiss and the next. Later as he stepped out of the shower he had told her again, that they could just easily dismiss themselves and go to eat somewhere else. She considered his seriousness until now. While she could agree with him that some of the guests are part of an emotionally constipated group of people who live in a cocoon of wealth and don't care about anything or anyone other than themselves, she has to admit that it's her family their talking about and they're not that bad. Fitz is the one who seems reluctant to try, completely out of his depths, he doesn't seem to understand the rules.

"Fitz, it would have been rather odd to turn up without you. Mama and papa were ever so eager to meet you, I couldn't say no to them."

"You're being selfish, Jemma."

"And you're being dramatic."

This is nothing, she wants to add. This has yet to start, it doesn't compare in any way to other stories she could tell him about the aristocracy and their filthy ways. She knows enough stories, she could tell them for days on end, but she knows that should mention it, he'd reply to leave the table before reaching the final course, and go somewhere private to tell him all about it. It goes all the way back to her childhood, back to boarding school and university, and they all share the same elements: he'd be too please with himself for being in the right.

He's about to say something when her cousin raises his voice and his glass and says, "Gentlemen, I've come to the realization that they don't hate us, they just envy us. They resent us. They say they don't like us, but they fucking love us."

"Amaideas," whispers Fitz and she laughs. "Will someone please save these people from themselves?"

It's a little too loud and the whole table goes silent, a couple of uncomfortable and mortifying moments where people freeze and look at them - some are still holding their forks, peas precariously balanced on the tip are ready to fall down.

"You don't like us, Leopold, do you?" asks Jemma's cousin.

"It's not personal," says Fitz. She nudges him with her elbow, but he ignores her and goes on without hesitating, not even for half a second. "Let me guess, you went to some exclusive school where you excelled at sports. Maybe you were a head boy. Then Oxbridge where everyone hoped for a first, but sadly you partied more than you should, you met the right people and had a ball. Your parents were a little bit disappointed, but what's an upper lower second?"

Her cousins looks at Fitz and raises his eyebrows with a challenging attitude, urging him to go on and reach the truth.

"A third?" Fitz pretends to be shocked and the voiced alveolar plosive at the end of his sentence comes out with a loud and theatrical gasp.

Stop it, she wants to tell him, stop it before you ruin it all. It's not that she's afraid of the consequences, her cousin is insufferable and everything that Fitz is saying is completely true, but this is her parents' dinner party and such conversations should be left at the door. There is no place for them because the outcome is predictable: once they start pouring the wine in copious amounts, it will degenerate, because it always does, because this is textbook, because she knows these people more than Fitz does and knows how such things end. It's a race to the top of the ladder, the desperate need to prove themselves to be the elite, the best and the brightest, the rightful heirs to an ancient tradition and they won't stop because it's a coalition, it's a desperate need for approval, the chase to that satisfying sense of elation that comes from demonstrating your own superiority.

"Still, you were part of some exclusive undergraduate club. You had fun, like many other men in your position."

"I did indeed." The smile on her cousin's face is slimy, daring and she feels the urge to punch it out of him.

Fitz smiles too. It's a cold and forced smile, his lips pressed into a thing red line. He looks disgusted and his feelings are there for everyone to see, he's an open book and she knows, she knows, that they will turn it to their advantage - this insult. There's no place for sarcasm or irony, he cannot brush it off like an unplanned remark or sarcastic joke: It's the truth, exposed in all its simplicity, and they know he's right. Part of her, no matter how infinitesimally small, thinks that he deserves this: she warned him and he refused to listen, now he'll see how his words are going to be tainted and used against him. Too bloody late, she thinks, he'll pass as the envious one and he doesn't seem to care.

"Whereas mugs like me slaved away at a third-rate university with very little of what you call a good time for paltry, got an unrecognized first mostly in a haze of misery." He stops and for a moment Jemma thinks, nay hopes, that he's finally done and conversation can move back to small talk and irrelevant matters. Maybe it's not too late and for one in her life things will go as planned. Maybe it's her edginess and fears that are merely fuelling her anxiousness causing her to make things up, see angered silences and harsh words when they're not actually there.

If he goes on, she thinks, it won't be Fitz to win this argument. The outcome is inevitable and predictable for everyone sitting at the table is biased and belongs to the same social circle - one big family, inciting each other so as not to hurt their egos.

"But I digress-"

"Fitz." She cuts him off, her voice sharp and his name a short harsh syllable.

"Afterwards you didn't get any job offers. Some company hired you but they were paying you shit so you called pater to fix things and went to London while your boss was stuck in Yorkshire, crying in his gin because he had forty years of experience and couldn't find a better position. As I said, it's not personal, I just don't like privileged." He finishes and stuffs some potatoes in his mouth, aggressively chewing on it and staring at the vegetables on his plate as if they are the most marvellous of sights.

"And yet you're here, dating my cousin." Jemma's cousin pauses, taking a sip of wine. "How very h-"

"I say." Jemma interrupts him, her voice is loud, almost squeaky and she does her best to keep calm and regain control. "Mama, you really outdid yourself. Both of you, this is such a splendid dinner."

"Thank you, darling."

She smiles and stands up, lifting her glass into the air for the second toast of the night, and addresses her parents. "Happy anniversary! I wish the pair of you the very best that life can bring."

"Hear hear." Plenty of voices lift themselves into the air, filling it, as all the guests reach for their glasses. Only Fitz's stays down and he barely masters a smile and a nod of agreement.

"Cenaturi te salutant," her uncle says as he stands up. "As we used to say back in the days: Gentlemen, imbibe."

There's laughter and at the other end of the table, too far away for her to properly catch the words, someone says something about their time at Oxford, fondness oozing through their voice.

"I say, did you hear that the Scottish Independence Referendum Act passed today? They were announcing it earlier on BBC news."

Fitz stirs uncomfortably in his chair and tries to look indifferent. But he can't can he? She thinks. Introduced in the Scottish Parliament in March by Nicola Sturgeon, with backing from the Referendum Bill Committee, it passed thanks to The Scottish National Party, the ruling party in Scotland, and Alex Salmond, the First Minister. At the time Fitz was just about to move to Edinburgh, less than two months after their first meeting: she had never seen him so happy and excited in the small time of their acquaintance. The one Act that matters to him, there's no way he'll ignore what comes next. They know it, he knows it and Jemma knows it. If only the earth could swallow them whole.

"Oh, but they had to. They had! It's never going to happen," says one of her father's friends. "Cameron himself only gave his assent because he knows that Scotland could never achieve anything without England. What did he say? The United Kingdom can never hold a country within it without its consent. He said we're better off together, but now people will have a choice. It's the same as saying that it will never happen."

"And never in my life did I hear someone or something so condescending-"

"And that Alex Salmond bloke, that disgusting triumphant smile on his face-"

"Nicola Sturgeon and her lot-"

"Her lot?" Fitz asks coldly.

"The Scottish National party. They're a threat to our hegemony and sovereignty."

"Are we now?"

"Fitz!" Jemma all but yells.

On her left, her aunt whispers, "Isn't there a way to control him?"

"If there was, he wouldn't be here."

It's impossible to be sure about whom they're talking. The rational part of her says one of the guests, the irrational one screams Fitz. It's Fitz and will always be Fitz, he's out of control and isn't following the rules as he sits there answering to every single provocation thus adding fuel to the already existing fire.

"This whole Independence Referendum is nothing but a frightful sell," says her aunt.

"Is this a joke to you?" asks Fitz, "Do you think it's funny that we might want to... Is this about the polls? Because less than forty percent would vote yes?"

"I know this matters a great deal to you," she tells Fitz. "But could you..."

"Yes, it does matter a great deal to me. This stuff."

"You don't have to-"

"Why? Am I not being polite enough?" He cuts her off.

He's being too polite, she could never do it and there's plenty of anecdotes to prove her point. However, this is hardly the point and it has nothing to do with his attitude: There's rules and he doesn't have to wear everyone out. The fact that he's not even drunk angers her too, her cousin is and such a insensible display of feelings and emotion is pointless and done on purpose on both sides. It angers her and upsets her and she wants to tell him, words coming out of her mouth in a grammatical fashion, to stop making it worse, stop embarrassing her and himself, stop listening and replying to every single thing that is said during dinner.

"One must admit, it is rather ridiculous."

The simple remark is followed by nods of agreement.

"Ridiculous? Do you want to know what really is ridiculous?" Fitz asks. "There's fifteen year old kids who are terrified of this referendum because they're afraid of choosing the wrong option. Meanwhile, your beloved Prime Minister promises an in-out referendum on a very delicate and important matter for the sole purpose of standing a chance of winning the next general election. Now that is ridiculous."

She's about to say something to Fitz, to her relatives, to her parents' friends. Anything to make them all stop, anything to dismiss and forget this dreadful matter before it gets out of hand and someone gets hurt - that someone most likely being Fitz. She opens her mouth, her throat dry, but before she can articulate any sound one of the guests, proud member of UKIP and acquaintance of its leader, cuts her off and drunkenly mumbles, "Vermin, the lot of you."

Jemma flinches, her stomach contracts and she feels the lobster Bisque coming up her throat.

Everything goes silent. Everyone looks at Fitz who just clenches his jaw and looks down, freezing. There's no sense in replying, she thinks, maybe there isn't even a right to reply.

"Christ," yells Fitz as he slams his hands on the table and pushes his chair back. The chair screeches on the floor and almost falls down as Fitz throws his serviette in his plate, the white cloth slowly turning brown as it gets in contact with the sauce.

Her heart races in her chest and her ears are ringing, appetite has deserted her: the content of her plate look uneatable under the soft light of the living room's lamp. She doesn't run after him, she doesn't look at him, and she doesn't say anything when her father announces, "What an incredible display of Scottish character."

They hear the front door slam and then conversation resumes as if nothing ever happened.

The old clock in the corner ticks the time away and she keeps track by the amount of alcohol that is poured into the fine glasses. It's a never ending flow, one bottle after the other, passed around, the transparent liquid filled up, no glass remains empty for too long. At the centre of the table, the water carafe remains untouched. Inappropriate jokes and more insults, Jemma let's her mind drift away and feels like watching the whole scene from far away, like stranger, not a real participant in it. There they are, in their fine evening dresses, one course replacing the next, like something out of a movie, the only things that are missing are the illegal substances and the trashing, everything else - there. The evening ruined for her and Fitz, everyone else doesn't seem to care and they probably don't.

Once she's done eating her Pikelets, she excuses herself and leaves the room. For a moment she considers going outside for a walk, but her jacket is back in her room instead of hanging on the coat hanger next to the door, and the November air is too cold to walk outside without anything to cover her exposed shoulders.

"Jemma, can I talk to you for a second?" Fitz's voice reaches her from the stairs and his heavy steps along with the creaking of the floor boards soon follow.

"Of course," she pauses. Behind her, in the living room, someone breaks out into a drunk and slurred rendition of Rule, Britannia! followed by a choir and the sound of glass breaking. "Didn't know you were back."

"Some time ago."

She follows him up the stairs and into her childhood bedroom, closing the door behind them. Such a small and familiar place, now, at night, it looks foreign and frightening, so different from what she remembers it to be. On the bed, Fitz's suitcase with his pyjama trousers half in and half out as if she just walked in on him unpacking. But he isn't, she thinks, he already unpacked that morning. He's packing again, which is too odd and unexpected for her mind to register and make sense of it.

"What do you think you're doing?"

"I'm leaving," he says drily, without looking at her.

"How very mature of you," she replies, the words colder and more sarcastic than planned. "You didn't even try, Fitz."

"Try?"

"You didn't want to come to Sheffield with me and you know what? You should have said so, you should have cancelled and made up some implausible excuse like I'm sick or something. But no, no you had to come here and-" She's all but yelling and her emotions are running wild as everything is turned up to eleven. They're doing this, she might as well be an active participant in it.

"Oh, please, do go on and finish that sentence. I cannot wait to hear how it's going to end. You! You said that I had to come because your parents wanted to get to know me and I followed you no matter how uncomfortable the idea made me feel. I came for you, Jemma! And here you are, acting as if I'm some sort of nuisance who ruined the evening, the oh so perfect family dinner because I refused to follow your rules."

"That's not true!"

"Isn't it? Isn't it? You said, oh Fitz you should know that these dinners might be tricky and unpredictable, here are some guidelines to follow just in case. Unpredictable is an understatement, Jemma! I thought my family was messed up, but yours deserves some sort of award."

"That's not true!"

"It fucking is. And you know what? It would have been lovely if anyone at that table and that includes you had stood up to end things. Thanks for nothing."

She sighs and covers her face with her hands, trying to appeal to her rationality. "Listen, Fitz, it's a five hour drive from here to Edinburgh and you just got here, why not until morning?"

He doesn't have to stay at her parents', they can leave and book a hotel somewhere in the city. There's plenty and she can pay for the expense, call it even with the terrible inconvenience caused by this trip. He can go alone or they can go together, it doesn't really matter as long as he doesn't drive back now. She's about to open her mouth when he stops her, raising his hand.

"I need to... I can't do this, Jemma. It was a mistake."

"Do what?"

"This." He gestures vaguely. "Us. Not now anyway."

"Are you seriously mad at me?" she asks as she feels anger washing over.

"What did you expect?"

"What did you expect! You cannot possibly expect me to hurt someone I care about."

He scoffs. "You don't get this, do you? I am sick to my stomach, I'm bloody furious. I don't give a shit if you or your family are Tories or if you think that the sun shines out of David Cameron's backside. But those people? They crossed a line! Listen, I can't think of anything right now."

She's willing to let him go, to step back and leave him be, no matter how much it causes her, as long as he says it loud and clear. But there's also a strange impulse, a thrilling sense close to that of self-destruction and self-sabotage that pushes her to answer all his accusation with as much sneer as his. A surprising and almost overwhelming impulse to hurt him as much as he's hurting her, so that they can be equals even now and for the last time: what happened at dinner was unfair and wrong, but she did warn him.

"So this is your icy pullback, isn't it?" She asks, her voice falters and she hates herself for saying such hurtful words out lout. It's too late to take them back, but it's not too late to admit that she should have acted differently, that she should have said something, that she should have followed him. She's on his side, obviously, but she stayed while he left and actions spoke volumes. You get close and... It's your pattern, right? You said it yourself."

"What the hell are you talking about?"

"Your nice little speech in Cornwall, that's what I'm talking about, You choose politics over people and then you hurt those who are close to you and ignore them and-"

"Are you even listening to yourself? Were we sitting at the same table tonight? Wake up, Jemma! That's not what a lovely family dinner looks like, that's a shit-show."

"Fitz-"

How stupid would it sound if she were to tell him that that's how these sort of things are? There is no way out and maybe he's right, it's a bloody circus, it's a disaster, but what does he know? Ancient rules, why break them. Why give in, break the facade of civility and peacefulness, and feed the entitlement, the low opinions and the sense of superiority? They're right no matter what. He doesn't know or doesn't care to know how these things work: People like her, they don't make mistakes.

"I can't do this anymore!" There are tears in his eyes, blurred and watery, he looks as if he's seconds away from crying. She watches him clench his fists and release them, his fingers still trembling after such a simple and useless action.

A glimpse of the two of them in the mirror: They look ridiculous, Fitz in his black dinner jacket and blue tie, and Jemma with her silver dress, her hair pulled up, long earrings and a small and simple diadem. It's ridiculous to think that a couple of hours earlier they were standing in that very same spot, unable to keep their hands off each other and laughter at the back of their throats - the prospect of being late for dinner, the most hilarious and entertaining thought in the world. How on earth did they get here?

"Is this because I didn't want to come an live with you?" she asks, an irrational explanation but maybe this is some twisted game of revenge. If they didn't have any problems, would he still have acted like he did?

"No, Jemma! Christ! That was a joke." He yells at her. "They called us vermin, in case you missed that part."

"I know and I'm sorry for that." She sighs.

"It's not about being sorry. If you just- For once in your life, Jemma, couldn't you take a stand and point your feet? Admit that it was wrong and-"

"Don't blame me, you should have-"

"Why? Why should I be the one to let it all go? The world doesn't revolve around the lot of you, you know? Those people, Jemma, those people are letting the country go to hell and won't stir. Those people feed into an ancient narrative and drip, drip, drip their hate by clinging to the past, holding tight."

She feels her heart beat fast in her chest as she says, "So that's it? It's over?"

"No, it isn't. It's not over, but I do need time," he replies, closing his suitcase. "And Jemma?"

"Yes?"

"For future reference please know that just because you're one of them, doesn't mean you have to act like them. I'll send you a text when I'm in Edinburgh."

She follows him into the corridor and down the stairs. Between the saddle and the ground he'll say that he never did a dishonourable action, how could anyone live beside him, she wants to ask. But she doesn't, she just watches him get into the car and drive away, until she can't see the car's headlights anymore and she steps back inside, taking her phone and looking for possible hotel options.


	2. 19 December 2013

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unbeta'd.

"Doctor Jemma Simmons," says Fitz as soon as she opens the door.

There's a sheepish smile on his face and a touch of playfulness and mischief in his eyes, enough to give away his teasing manners. For a split second there's an awkward silence that could be easily interrupted with a fake cough or a glance drifting to the street behind him, the lonely cars passing by, barely beneath the speed limit. Embarrassment washes over her and she finds herself unable to decide what to do. Harsh and angry words, surely he remembers them as much as she does, not to mention her hypocritical behaviour: lashing out, her stubborn conviction of being in the right.

To kiss him, even on the cheek, seems inappropriate and out of place and yet, the old and familiar domesticity is there, all around them, looking at them and mocking them. Fitz said he needed time, does he still need it? He can be here as a friend and a boyfriend or even an acquaintance - plenty of people she speaks with less than twice a year were at her viva so why should not the same rules apply to him? But he came, she has to remind herself, out of his own free will and there he is all bundled up in his winter coat and that has to mean something. It has to mean something after everything they've been trough. The beginning of a truce, perhaps. Or the end of the beginning. She doesn't dare to be too positive.

"That's Doctor Doctor Simmons to you, thank you very much," she replies at last, trying not to let her voice falter, trying to let the conversation flow naturally. They'll get there when they're ready, no need to push it.

"Well then, Doctor Doctor Jemma Simmons, it's good to see you again." He pauses. "Can I come in or do I have to stand here for the rest of my life?"

"Of course you can come in! Shoes off, as always." Jemma steps to the side, letting him go past her, and then closes the door behind him. "Please. You can leave them at their usual spot."

"I've got you something," he tells her, handing her out a paper bag with an elegant print on it. "To celebrate your groundbreaking achievements. I considered bringing wine, then I thought that your parents... It would have been hard to compete with that. So I got you cake, which we can have for tea or you can have for breakfast if you decide to throw me out at some point."

"Pray tell, why on earth would I want to do that?"

"I don't know, you tell me. I know we didn't part on good terms last time. Congratulations, I mean it."

"Thank you."

They smile at each other for what seems like a lifetime, hardly able to look away. To be honest, which is something she long thought about, seems like the easiest thing in the world: to pour out carefully constructed sentences in a grammatical fashion as natural and as easy as when she rehearsed them in front of the mirror.

"It's good to see you again, Jemma. I'm glad we didn't wait months or years, I'm glad you invited me and I'm happy to be here."

All she can think of is taking his hand and tell him that it seems impossible now not to have stood at his side, to have chosen a lifetime of conditioning instead of them. Needed, perhaps, a wake-up call for both of them lest things got out of hand, lest there was much more to lose. But they are here, now, an extraordinary matter: They are the lucky ones. For if this is it, a long wanted second chance, the perfect occasion to right her wrongs, to resume and start again - their friendship and their relationship, exactly where they interrupted it - then she won't waste it by listening to a lifetime of traditions telling her that she was indeed in the right. Because she wasn't and of that she is sure.

"I'm happy you're here," she says. "I'm sorry you didn't make it to the viva, not that you missed much. Getting ready for next year, I suppose. There's what? Nine months to go?"

"Yeah, though they feel like a lifetime, trust me. I wanted this to happen for so long and now I can't wait for it to be over, to know the outcome and make my peace with it."

"Well, you know what they say, time flies. It'll be September in a jiffy and all the months and years leading up to it will feel as if they happened yonks ago." She shrugs. "You look good, Fitz. You look well."

"Well?"

"Fit."

"Ah." He sighs dramatically before adding matter-of-factly, "it's because I do push-ups now. Double digits."

Jemma laughs and he soon follows.

It feels good. It feels solid and established, well know. It's some sort of firm ground on which they can walk and explore what remains of their relationship in the aftermath of their argument. It feels safe. It's a situation that likes them as much as she likes it, it's benevolent and reassuring, welcoming even. A good start if not a good omen, the best thing she could wish for. They can look each other in the eye with no shame or lingering anger, and that per se is an extraordinary matter that enhances the easiness, an easiness so similar to the one that always characterized their relationship.

"You look tired."

"Why, thank you!" She jokes. "Someone's brutally honest today. What did you have with your tea? Truth serum?"

"Just sugar." He pauses. "Sorry, I didn't want it to sound so mean."

"I suppose you're right. And I am tired, it's been a handful of days and I feel like I could sleep for a month. I'm probably going to sleep for a month, why not? Or maybe I should go on holiday for a while, although there are so many things I worry about that I no longer know what to worry about first."

"That's oddly relatable, though I'm afraid I've already got my holidays booked. There goes our chance of running away together to someplace nice. Think about it, we could have gone to some island and-"

"I'd have done something that would have taken your breath away."

He looks at her completely bewildered and speechless, his mouth half opened. "Wha- What?"

"Snorkelling, Fitz. I meant snorkelling. I honest to God don't want to know what you were thinking of and why you were thinking of it."

"Why? You're really asking me why? Are you the same Jemma that I know or did they switch you with an evil twin?"

She laughs. "It's me, it's me. There's no need to make fun of me like that. Anyway, it's not the best time to run away to anywhere, really. Too much to do, I think my whole calendar is booked at least until Easter."

"Mine's booked till the referendum, so I'm the busiest."

"I had no idea that this was a race."

"Oh, you know how these things are," he says and laughs. "It's quite difficult to leave the bitter rivalry behind. Learnt it at uni, we were terribly competitive back then."

"Ah, I see." She pauses.

Before she can get on, however, her father's voice cuts her off announcing their imminent decision to leave.

Her parents walk into the small hall fully dressed, her mother still putting on her gloves and her father already with his car keys in his hand. For a moment there's an awkward silence, they all study each other inquisitively, daringly, as if challenging the other to continue the scene that occurred weeks earlier. Fitz looks on his guard as he stands there - taller and bigger he looks as if he owns the world.

"Fitz," her father says at last. "Just the man we were hoping to meet."

"Am I?" Fitz asks bewildered, relaxing, his whole posture changing for the second time in a couple of minutes.

"We wanted to apologize for what happened at dinner while you were staying at us."

"Thank you, sir."

"It was a pity to see you soon. Jemma seems to care a great deal about you and we didn't display the best behaviour. There is no way to make up for it, I'm sure, but-"

"There really isn't, but I shall accept your apology and consider it sufficient."

"Have good day then."

"You too, sir."

They briefly shake hands, quick and mechanical movements, and then she leads her parents out of the door - hugging them and kissing them both on the cheek before waving them goodbye until they disappear behind the corner, out of sight.

"Did you do that on purpose?" asks Fitz, as soon as she closes the door.

"Do what?"

"Have your parents in here right before I arrived."

"No, I did not. I swear." She smiles. "Listen, they've been staying for a couple of days, well, in London, they've been staying in London for a couple of days for my viva. At some fancy hotel with a spa in it. Gosh, I could use a spa right now. Still, they're heading back to Sheffield but thought it would be nice to have lunch together before leaving."

The whole thing feels like payback though she won't ever tell him for who cares how her parents reacted to her words and decisions on that cold November night. She left and therefore they didn't stay at her place, they might as well blame it on their need to show the world that unnecessary expenses are no problems. Deep down, Jemma knows that her parents are also trying to make her remember that she's one of them: she could afford the extra expenses back in Sheffield, went to some four stars hotel just because she had had an argument and a broken heart. Status restored, spending money because you could, because you had it, because it had been given to you - they were all trapped in their usual ways.

"They didn't feel like sleeping on the sofa," she explains.

It's a lie and they both know it. Fitz knows that her house has a guest room with a double bed in it, the sofa would never be an option to begin with. But she won't tell him anything nor will she accept any wryly comments about her income and social status: he can think whatever he wants of her parents, God knows they deserve every insult and every bad thought, but she won't stand in front of him being called out for the second time in her life, nor will she throw a tantrum.

He laughs. "Sorry, should have figured out that it was because of your viva."

"No need to apologize, it was a rather legitimate question to ask, really. And just so you know, I did not ask them to apologize either."

She never did and never would for her parents were adults and had to take their responsibilities as much as every other person on earth. The truth is one, it's a harsh one and applies to everyone including herself, people like them made mistake and could be held accountable.

"I wasn't implying it."

"I know," she says. "I just wanted to make it clear. And while we're at it, I'd like to apologize to you for my behaviour which includes staying silent and not following you. Not to mention that I thought about paying it off by sending you to some hotel and pay for any possible expenses. Though I would have followed you to a hotel, not that it makes it better. What you said that night, you were right and I was wrong, I didn't want to listen to you or hear those things but I did play into their narrative and I did act like them. Staying silent was the same as excusing them and their behaviour."

Going home brings out the worst of her, although it isn't a sufficient excuse for she too is an adult and in control of her actions. All the jokes, the humouring and the deflections do not hide the fact that she's not that different from her parents, her cousin, her father's friends. And that night she hardly slept as such a harsh realization settled inside her, as she realized that Fitz was the only person at dinner or in the house to be entitled to his anger.

She always liked the idea of not being like them, to have a clear line separating her from her ancestors. She always liked that sense of victory and mawkish idea of being right, of not being part of the them. The promise made when she was little, seeing her relatives destroy each other and be consumed by jealousy, trapped in their own unhappiness, not to be like that: There was her and there was them. Now it turns out that there is and always was just a them, the same mistakes repeated by every single generation.

"You must think me terribly naive." She goes on as they walk into the living room. "I know that families aren't supposed to be like that. I used to- Never mind, that's not an excuse and I'm not going to say it. I'm old enough to make up my own mind and I care, I do care so very much. I should have-"

"Jemma-" Fitz shakes his head.

It's difficult now to find the words, no matter how many times she rehearsed the speech in front of the mirror. She's tired and restless and words are elusive, deserting her, they hardly make sense as her thoughts go staccato. She'd like to tell him everything, the entire family history, even though it would take hours, and maybe he'll see how deeply rooted the poison is. Apologies don't come easy, especially now that it's about something she never apologized before, especially when the temptation to shrug it off and say that it isn't her fault or her parents': it's because of the messed up family situation, her aunt is jealous of her mother for having married into the aristocracy, there's money and even more money - a very long string of numbers, and her cousin the poor victim as well as an accomplice.

But if she does this, if she starts to find some excuse for every single person who was at dinner that night, she'd go back for centuries and no one would be blamed or forced to take their responsibility. People like them make no mistakes. It had to stop, right? she wants to ask him. At some point t has to stop so it might as well be now.

"I shouldn't have forced you to come, you were feeling uncomfortable and I ignored you. My parents could have met you any other time and there wouldn't have any of... that. I should have run after you and you shouldn't have been in that position, the whole dinner party insulting you. I'm sorry, Fitz, for everything that happened." She pauses, stretching her arm out so as to point at the sofa. "Do sit down, please."

"Thank you, Jemma."

They take place on the sofa - his fingers are close and she can imagine moving her own hand closer to his, take it, fingers brushing and slowly intertwining. An appealing and tantalizing idea, there's nothing on earth she'd like to do more, but she doesn't.

"One would think that with two PhDs words would come easy. The truth is that I'm rather out of my depths here because I never really apologized about such thing, you know the people I usually hang out with. You must think that I believe that we have the monopoly of honour and I guess that's true, I spent most of my adult life trying to break free from such a conditioning only to realize that I haven't, that I'm very much stuck in it. But I am genuinely sorry, Fitz, I wasn't two weeks ago. All I could think of was saying I told you so," she explains.

"Well, you did tell me," jokes Fitz.

"But it wasn't the way, it really wasn't the way. It should have never escalated and you had the right to reply and try to defend yourself. I care about you, Fitz, and I know that taking a side may not have helped, but it would have mattered. I can't speak for any of those people, but I don't believe that you and your lot-"

"My lot?"

"Are vermin."

"Ah, that. That's probably the only thing I couldn't accuse you off. Jemma, I accept your apology and I know that you come from a specific background and class, everyone's conditioned by someone or something. I was so angry and hurt, Christ, I wished you tried a little bit harder that night."

"So we're friends again?"

"We are."

"Then may I ask you something?"

"Of course."

"I think it's splendid that you're having a referendum. I know it came into force yesterday and, honestly, good for you." She pauses and smiles. "But what happens if no wins? And why do you care so much about a positive outcome?"

She did her research and most of the time felt guilty for focusing on something that wasn't her thesis, and came up with three reasons beside the historical one: The Devolution, fèin-riaghlaidh, the statutory granting of powers by the Parliament of the UK to the Scottish one; The West Lothian question, or English question, a term developed by Enoch Powell in 1977 after Tam Dalyell, the Labour MP for the Scottish constituency of West Lothian, raised the matter repeatedly in House of Commons debates on devolution, that considers whether MPs from Northern Ireland, Scotland and Wales, sitting in the house of Commons should be able to vote on matters that affect only England; and Barnett formula, devised in 1978, the mechanism used by the Treasury to automatically adjust the amounts of public expenditure allocated to Northern Ireland, Scotland and Wales to reflect changes in spending levels allocated to public services in England as appropriate. There's plenty more but none of them, no matter how interesting, quite explain Fitz's interest.

"I suppose that if no wins then we'll have to accept it, depends on the percentage, really. But if anything happens, if Cameron keeps his promise and we get a referendum, than I'd rather prefer Scotland to be able to decide about the future alone." He pauses. "I guess we have to wait and see what happens next. I don't trust Cameron and I don't trust the people in his party, they want the referendum, they'll do anything to get the outcome that they want and they can do it because people don't give a shit about the European Union, they'll believe anything."

Jemma looks at and smiles sadly. She's rather hopeful and surely he's wrong, thinking so little of the nation's population, though he's positivity in regards to Scotland's vote for independence is rather staggering. If no wins then it won't matter: People are going to say I told you so and every single MP is going to be smug about it. People like her relatives are going to pat each other on the back in a complimentary manner, rejoicing at the thought of England's hegemony and sovereignty standing untouched and unaltered, if not enforced. Rule Britannia always and forever.

The percentage won't matter as long as the result is the wanted one. Troubled times and if Scotland votes no, then people will say that if they were right about that, who knows what else they were right about. It will inevitably spiral out of control and give confidence to those people who already are over-confident and the country will crack a little bit more under the false appearance of control as it inhabitants are lulled into a misleading sense of security and stability.

"As for the reason," he continues. "I guess that it's about my father. His fault for having married someone from the Outer Hebrides, Na h-Eileanan Siar, where the percentage of Gaelic speakers is 52.2. He had it coming, really. My father walked out when I was ten. Sorry, don't know why I'm telling you this."

"No, please, go on if you feel like it. And there's no need to apologize, I'm the one who asked you."

"When I was little and for a long time after that... My mom used to speak Gaelic. Still speaks. Now, we can spend weeks on end speculating about the reasons behind her choice, was it because of national identity or to anger my father? Maybe it was both. I think it was both. And I get it, I've been there, that feeling of having to affirm yourself, say this is it, this is me. My father is an opportunistic bastard who only cared about appearances and proving to be as English as possible. I guess part of me wants to prove him wrong, part of me wants this to happen to say that we're not like that. That sounds rather silly, doesn't it?"

"No, of course not."

"No more sacrifices or denial. Speaking of which, there's a new position coming up... Inverness."

"Inverness?" she asked surprised.

"Yeah, of all places, I'm considering whether or not to apply for the job."

"Oh, you should! You should. I mean, if you find it interesting and worth it."

"Worth it? Yes. Interesting? I'm not sure. But if I do, will you come and visit me?"

"Of course, what kind of question is that? We agreed that we're friends again, right?"

That and maybe more, though she doesn't have the courage to ask him. One step at a time, carefully and slowly.

"Friends, right. That we are."

Or maybe not. She looks at him, he seems to be staring at her with longing, unless it's her mind playing tricks on her, encouraged by her own wishful thinking. There's something familiar about this, maybe because of their first night together and the cake in the fridge, maybe it's about all the time they've spent together sitting on that very sofa. A sense of complete domesticity which she has missed ever so much, which she has longed for daily, the one that makes her feel at ease and at home next to Fitz, as if there always was a them rather than a me. A natural spot at her side for him and not necessarily as a couple, even though it seems impossible as she looks at him to deny her feelings.

"Question." She blurts out. The words are already on the tip of her tongue, ready to come out, and there's no point in not voicing her thoughts: It's been too long. "What would you say if I asked you to stay the night? Not a good idea? forget it."

"No, it's not that! I'd love to stay, Jemma, I really do."

"But?"

"But I promised my mother that I'd arrive on the nineteenth. We're headed off to Shetland to visit my uncle and I'd ask you to come-"

Not a good idea, she wants to tell him. Let formal presentations wait after the disaster of the last time.

"I'm spending Christmas with Hunter and Bobbi." Jemma cuts him off "We promised Bobbi that we'd cook her a typical British dinner and we have every intention to keep our promise. We're going to watch some BBC drama and drink a little bit too much and- What?"

"Hunter can cook?" Fitz asks. He sounds genuinely shocked. "What do you mean Hunter can cook?"

"He's quite good actually."

"That bastard. That bastard!"

"Why?"

"He always told me he couldn't cook and we've known each other for years. We used to live together! Jemma, you have no idea- the stuff he used to prepare for dinner, I think I'm scarred for life."

"Wait, Bobbi never told you how she married Hunter for his cooking skills?"

Fitz laughs. "No, never."

"You should ask her all about it when she's sober, otherwise she'll start telling you about Hunter's other skills if you know what I mean." She laughs. "Well, now you know that should anything happen to your former flat it's my fault."

"Jemma?"

"Yes?"

"What your cousin said, I'm not dating you because you have money and a title."

"He made it sound like you seduced me, didn't he? Class traitor and all of that, as if the old you would have liked to put a bomb under the lot of us."

"Seduced you? I'm sorry, but if anything you're the one who seduced me." He pauses, trying his best to imitate her voice as he goes on and says, "I want more from you, Fitz. Let's go back to mine, Fitz."

"That's not even how I sound," she protests.

"Come and kiss me, you lemon. No one even says lemon nowadays."

"Hmm. And what if I were to tell you that I was thinking about seducing you right now?"

"I was rather counting on it, I'd hate for your cousin to be right," he says and kisses her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> \- The Scottish Independence Referendum Act 2013 passed on 14 November 2013;  
Royal assent was given on 17 December 2013;  
It came into force on 18 December 2013;  
The referendum took place on 18 September 2014;  
\- The results were the following: Yes, 1,617,989 votes (44.70%); No, 2,001,926 votes (55.30%).  
\- The turnout of 84.6% was the highest recorded for an election or referendum in the UK since the January 1910 general election, which was held before the introduction of universal suffrage.   
\- Some were happy and relieved, some cried and Alex Salmond said "(...) Scotland has by majority decided not at this stage to become an independent country. I accept that verdict of the people and I call on all of Scotland to follow suit and accepting the democratic verdict of the people of Scotland. But I think all of us in this campaign will say that that 45% , that 1.6 million votes is a substantial vote for Scottish independence in the future of this country. Let us say something which I hopes unites all campaigns and all scores. I think the process by which we have made a decision as a nation reflects enormous credit upon Scotland. A turnout of 86% is one of the highest in the Democratic world for any election or any referendum in history. This has been a triumph for the democratic process and for participation in politics."  
\- Heads up, Achd na Gàidhlig (Alba) 2005 (Gaelic Language (Scotland) Act 2005) passed in 2005. It's the first piece of legislation to give formal recognition to the Scottish Gaelic language. It aimed to secure Gaelic as an official language of Scotland, "commanding equal respect" with English, by establishing Bòrd na Gàidhlig.  
Royal assent: 1 June 2005;  
Commencement: 3 February 2006;  
\- The Queen always assents.

**Author's Note:**

> \- Yes, the upper-class is like that.  
\- Anti-Scottish sentiment dates back to the Middle Ages. In 2004, The Spectator published a "satirical" poem by James Michie, the first line reads "The Scotch – what a verminous race!". At the time, the editor of The Spectator was Boris Johnson. Another term that often recurs in UK press and parliament debates is "Scottish mafia" which is a pejorative term used by English nationalists for a group of Scottish Labour Party politicians and broadcasters who have been seen as having undue influence over the government of the United Kingdom and in particular of England. In 2007 a number of Scottish MPs warned of increasing anti-Scottish sentiment in England, citing the unfairness of Devolution, the West Lothian question and the Barnett formula as causes.  
\- [Cameron and Salmond sign Scottish Referendum Deal](https://www.itv.com/news/2012-10-15/cameron-and-salmond-sign-scottish-referendum-deal/)  
\- The normal voting age was reduced from 18 to 16 for the referendum, as it was a Scottish National Party policy to reduce the voting age for all elections in Scotland. The move was supported by Labour, the Liberal Democrats and the Scottish Greens. Around that time (that is to say 2013/14) they were interviewing teenagers who were supposed to vote for the referendum and one of them actually said he was scared of making the wrong decision and that it was such a big responsibility.  
\- Polls said: Yes: 36%, No: 46%; don't know: 20%.  
\- I had the honour of discussing Brexit and Scottish Independence with one of the members of the Scottish National Party and he said that while he never heard any official remarks about no winning and brexit, it doesn't seem like too much of a stretch (#validation) which is why I included it into the story.


End file.
